How much rudeness can be packed into one apartment? Some day, hopefully soon, I’ll look back and miss my time here.
Residing in Apt #666 downstairs in The Village of the Damned, is Mr Marlboro Man, his little Missus, a young teen boy and a tiny yipping canine. Y’all have heard me talk about Mr Marlboro Man before and I’m about to again.
Mr Marlboro Man’s large and very manly diesel truck has been sitting right outside of my door and idling for the past 52 minutes causing my molars to rattle. 52 minutes! I know I have the amount of time right because it was almost two full episodes of COPS on the television. The rumble gets annoying after just a few minutes but after a prolonged time it really grates. I’d rather be locked in a room listening to Honey Boo Boo than this truck.
No wait, I wouldn’t.
Where was I? Oh right, this engine idling is a daily occurrence though normally lasts for a mere 19 minutes. Diesel costs a lot, I’ve seen it for myself at the gas station. This seems a terrible waste and an air pollutant.
Speaking of air pollutants. From this same unit wafts cigarette smoke. It’s really not my business if they wish to smoke. It’s their choice and I’m not going to get on my soapbox and talk about it or get judgmental by saying his lungs probably look like little bits of coal. They apparently don’t like the smell of it in their apartment either so they smoke outside. Unfortunately they stand near the building HVAC air-intake. I stopped using my heating system several months ago to avoid drawing in the fumes. Did I mention it’s cold here in the winter? On the plus side of things, I can now chill my martini fixings right on the kitchen counter.
Also living in this apartment is a little dog whom we’ll call Ben. It’s a chihuahua and is smaller than a lab, a lab rat that is. When Ben isn’t barking incessantly, sometimes hours on end, he’s crapping in the grass. That’s what dogs do, they crap in the grass. And responsible dog owners following one of the rules here in The Village of the Damned, pick up their dog’s crap. But not Mr or Missus Marlboro Man, no siree.
Now, why does Ben’s business have any impact on me? Because it’s like a minefield of dog crap when I walk through that area to take my garbage to the dumpster. If Ben were big, his piles would be big and much easier to spot and avoid. But Ben is little and has a profuse output of rabbit pellet sized offerings. If I’m not diligent and keep my eyes focused on the ground ahead of me, I step in them, which I have before and judging from the smell of things, Ben eats road kill.
I have options.
- I could report this to the The Village of the Damned Warden.
- I could confront Apt #666 myself but they have a terrible temper.
- I could collect up every last bit of Ben crap and put it in the tailpipe of the big manly diesel truck.
I’m going to go fix a martini and ponder my options.